Creed

Ursarkar E. Creed is a Lord General of the Imperial Guard and the current Lord Castellan of Cadia who is such a tactical genius he may somehow infiltrate ANY unit onto a battlefield (as if it were using the Scouts special rule). Even vehicles. Even SQUADRONS of vehicles. Apparently even Titans. The only thing his genius can't handle is cavalry, since it wouldn't make sense for them to be scouts. This can cause considerable confusion and consternation to opposing forces as, for example, a 45 foot tall Warhound reveals itself from behind a small bush (hey its a SCOUT titan), or they notice that the door they just attempted to open was in fact a Baneblade, leading them to curse the tactical genius of their enemy with cries of "CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!".

He's also a manly-looking cigar-chomping motherfucker with a coat so huge its collar obscures all peripheral vision. Presumably he wears it due to a lack of power armor, which normally fulfills this function by virtue of pauldrons. In addition to that, he also carries not one, but TWO motherfucking hellpistols in combat, just to show everyone that he's that pimping. He is currently aligned with Tzeentch, Oh fuck.*BLAM*The Emprah, since Creed is too much of a Tactical Genius for Tzeentch's pussy ass to handle, and he knows this.

As of 6th Edition, his tektikal jinyus has failed him and Failbaddon is fucking shit up all about Cadia and Segmentum Obscurus in general.*BLAM*Creed's genius remains indisputable, GW are just desperately trying to pretend that Abaddon isn't the big fat failure that we all know that he is. nope he's simply waiting for the best opportunity to reveal that what Abaddon previously thought was Cadia is in fact a carefully arranged group of Imperator Class Titans. Just as Planned. Creed's tactical genius and plot armour make him the Imperial Guard equivalent of Papa Smurf, though being just an ordinary human otherwise makes him less (or more, depending on how you view it) of a Mary Sue.

No but seriously, apparently the 13th Black Crusade got retconned by GW. Turns out the results of the worldwide campaign were a flop so they're going to try again, which is a part of the fluff-upheaval they've been talking about.

As far as we know, Creed has one son, but as revenge after his loss in The Great Game, Tzeentch did a Primarch and fired his son into 1980s Illinois, where he was found and given the name of Kevin McCallister.

Contents

Creed has woven his very essence into /tg/ through the tactical skills he possesses. /tg/ is now clearly known to stand for Tactical Genius, and not Traditional Games as many have previously thought. Only a tactical genius could accomplish this. Likewise, only a tactical genius could have hidden the entire Cadian 8th in 4chan's interwebzserver boxes to surprise ambush the maintenance shift and bring 4chan down.

In fact, it's probably the best meme /tg/ has created for some time now. Seriously, sometimes one might believe that it could have only been started by some kind of tactical geniu-

This article or section involves Matt Ward, your Spiritual Liege, who is universally-reviled on /tg/. Because this article or section covers Ward's copious amounts of derp and rage, fans of the 40K series are advised that if you proceed onward, you will see fluff and crunchviolation of a level rarely seen.

Sadly, due to this douche, Creed is no longer the Tactical Genius extraordinaire, as his ability has been co-opted by the Fifth-Edition Grey Knights, who can Scout up to three units. God damn it, Games Workshop. That said, the original CREEEEEEEEED!-like ability was the Second Edition generic Imperial Assassin; before the Polymorphine wargear card was replaced with one specific to the Callidus Assassin, it wasn't entirely abnormal for a Gretchin to suddenly become an Imperial Assassin in Terminator Armour riding a bike.

In Creed's defense, this is at least fluff-inconsistent; the Grey Knights are highly brainwashed troops, who obey every single command to the letter, without showing personal initiative. Creed, on the other hand, gets to work with Imperial Guardsmen, who, unlike Grey Knights, actually have an in-game mechanic for following orders, they do it so much. Also, Creed isn't using bullshit tricks like being psychic or killing off a ton of friendly Adeptae Kitchenates to fight demons.

Besides which, the Grey Knights can't scout vehicles, so Creed is still the only source of Titans hiding behind waist-high fences.

Also, who do you think taught them their Tactical Genius to begin with?

And then in Sixth Edition happened. Creed's power became a IG exclusive Warlord Trait. Now any Guard Commander who rolls right who was, in fact, Creed all along is a Tactical Genius. Also, Creed gets to roll for two Warlord Traits now, so he gets double chance to Outflank shit compared to everyone else. It should be noted that the Warlord Trait in question works on D3 units from the same Codex as Creed - so no more outflanking Titans, but maybe outflanking cavalry. All in all, not all is lost. It says from the same primary detachment! Slap that Imperator in you LoW slot, and you are good to go!

"So. Fresh bunch'a recruits straight off the regimental home world, huh? Got your heads full of propaganda and not much else, lemme bet. Well, listen to me and listen good, kids - probably half of what you know is nothing but ambull-shit, and you'd better get that through your heads now rather than getting a traitor's lasbolt through your head on the battlefield. Now, you pray to the Emperor like you should, and if you don't the Commissar'll blow your head off, and that'll be a mercy compared to what I'll do to ya if I find out 'fore he does - but don't be thinkin' for a second that recitin' the Litany of Protection makes you invulnerable on a battlefield.

Sure, you'll hear stories about brave Guardsmen that charged enemy positions armed with nothin' but their lasguns and their bayonets and won - and I'll even admit that probably a couple of them are true, but in an army that numbers in the billions one or two of ya are bound to get lucky every now and again, so it don't really say much. No, kids, they might make for inspirin' stories, but fanatical charges aren't what win battles. Battles are won by determination and tactics. Lemme tell you about this one time our regiment was servin' under the command of General Creed.

Never a finer tactician has the Imperial Guard ever seen than that General Creed, let me tell you. He came up with plans so devious and cunnin' you didn't even have a hope of figurin' out how he'd done what he'd done 'less he explained it to ya himself. We were fightin' on Kavara IV, what'd used to be a good Imperial world till the taint of Chaos found its way down there and turned loyal citizens into traitorous scum. At the time we'd been shipped off, we thought we were just gonna be helping the local PDF put down a small insurrection, but what with the ways of the warp by the time we got there it'd turned into a full on rebel uprisin' and all the nobles were already dead or in hidin', and another army led by General Creed had arrived to bring it back under control - we'd been missin' so long they thought we'd been lost to the warp, you see, and sent another off in our place - so we wound up joinin' forces an' bolsterin' their ranks.

Now, we got deployed into one of the urban centers that'd been taken over almost entirely by the heretics, goin' through clearing buildings of resistance and tightenin' the noose around their filthy necks. Only been gettin' minor resistance until a couple of hours in, when we stumbled across a fortified plaza that hadn't been in none of the intelligence reports. So there we were, pinned down by enemy fire, usin' rubble for cover and hopin' to the Emperor that'd we get some artillery support soon, when all of a sudden there's a tremendous rumblin' off to the right, soundin' like a column of tanks comin' up towards the buildin' we'd just cleared.

We weren't gettin' nothin' about armored support on the vox, so we was sittin' there shittin' ourselves wonderin' where the traitors had got tanks from, when all of a sudden the front of the buildin' just collapses out onto the street and a damn Baneblade rolls right on out in front of us. One blast from the main gun and it turned the heretic's position into a crater. The vox lights up and we get ourselves a message - "Armored Support courtesy of General Creed", they say. Now that's tactics, kids - we never saw it comin', so those traitors sure didn't. The application of overwhelmin' force at just the right spot at just the right moment'll turn the tide of any battle in your favor.

I took a look at that buildin' again as we were marchin' down the street in the Baneblade's wake, though. Funniest thing, the only hole in it was the one the tank'd made on its way out. How the hell we missed it when we were clearin' the place I don't know. How the hell Creed got it in there in the first place, I'm not sure I WANT to know - but let me tell you, pulling that off must've taken one hell of a tactical genius."

-Sergeant Karls addressing new recruits to the Hirian 204th, shortly before being relieved of duty and sent for psychiatric evaluation due to inexplicable urges to scream incoherently.

The forces of Chaos reigned victorious over the shattered city, littered with the wounded and dying Guardsmen of the Cadian 503rd. At their head, ready to deliver the killing blow to the last world between him and conquest, strode Abaddon the Despoiler himself, his Daemonblade screaming as it claimed the souls of a score of men, slashing through the staunch but futile defenses of his feeble foe. He had won. Finally, after all these centuries, he had triumphed, and begun to finish what that weakling Horus had started! And now, now it was time to put the icing on the cake, and finish off that arrogant son of a bitch Creed, as he routed like a coward nonetheless!

Beside him, his lieutenants roared in delight, cleaving through flesh and bone and steel alike, and his bodyguard made a mockery of Imperial pride. Demons from the warp, incarnations of the entropy of Khorne and Slaanesh hacked their way through droves of fleeing shock troopers, and a flanking force of the Night Lords penned in those who were left, trapping them in a great valley.

His final carnage began in a great valley, the product of a near miss by a melta torpedo. A miss that had spared the Imperials yesterday, but sealed their fates tonight! Abaddon flung himself into the fray, cleaving with full strokes the men who stood in between him and his prey, butchering wholesale with his men. The Cadians fought like men possessed, like monsters cornered. Abaddon's men were possessed, monsters in truth as well as metaphor, and so fought harder still. When the last corpse fell, it was Abaddon who laid it low, sending that cloak, that cigar spinning to the ground with a backhand from his mighty palm. The heavyset, gray-haired man lay flat upon the graying mud, and a pool of blood grew around him. Abaddon felt his breath quicken, and kicked the Castellan over, to see his face as the Daemonblade consumed his soul.

"I've won, Creed! I've beaten you, the Imperium is MINE for the taking! The galaxy shall burn! But not before I hear you beg, NOT BEFORE I HEAR YOU BEG!" His voice was torn with emotion, manic laughter struggled free of his throat.
The figure tipped over, to lay spread eagle on its back. Silent, broken, and dead. An old man, slain by a casual blow from an immortal warrior. Abaddon felt something leave him. The rush vanished. Creed was dead. He had won... Yes. He had defeated the hero of the Imperium, but Creed was dead. And without ever even knowing that Abaddon had won. The united leader of Chaos knelt down, and screamed at the square-jawed corpse, howling in anger, in the hopes that perhaps his fleeting soul could still hear his words. "I. HAVE. WON. CR-" He froze mid-word, as he realized that the crater was silent. He stood, and thought for a moment that his men were watching him. He was mistaken, for his marines, his warriors, his cultists... Even the demons, were staring open-mouthed, at the crest of the crater that they had swept into.

For one nanosecond. For one fleeting, cursory micron of an instant, Abaddon was confused.

And then he knew. He knew what he would see when he looked up to match their gaze. He knew what he would see when he looked up, and realized why Creed had led this defensive force personally, and why he had not boarded one of the Valkyries that had escaped, or a Chimera to flee. He looked up, to see the barrels of a thousand tanks, the crested figures of ten thousand men, the whirring shapes of countless hundreds of skimmers and fighters. He saw in the distance, the smoking ruin of his flagship drifting through orbit a hundred miles away, and heard all of a sudden the unjammed signals of panicked screaming coming in from every one of his officers and aides.

And he knew, without looking, the expression upon that fat old man's face, despite the shattered jaw and the broken neck.

Abaddon saw, before his eyes, his Crusade crumble. And he knew, without looking, the expression upon that fat old man's face, despite the shattered jaw and the broken neck. And he felt his last emotion before the guns started firing, and the torpedoes struck, and the lascannon-bolts flew. Boiling up inside of him, he opened his mouth, and screamed.
And over the din of battle, though battle cannon roared and basilisk whistled, though lasgun cracked and Guardsmen cried out with tears in their eyes the name of their savior, no voice cried so loudly as Abaddon the Fool's, whose hatred of one man had cost him a victory that could have changed the galaxy, the one man whose name he now invoked. That magnificent bastard. That tactical geniu-

The mortal moved his piece. Tzeentch, Lord of Change and Master of Destinies moved his. They were playing a game of chess. The stakes were high: if the mortal won, Tzeentch, all his daemons and followers would retreat to the Warp for all time and would never again attempt to harry the mighty Imperium of Man in any way be it directly or indirectly. If Tzeentch won (which, of course, he knew he would), the soul of the mortal went to Tzeentch. These stakes obviously seemed skewed in favor of the mortal, but there were several factors to consider.

The mortal moved another piece.

Tzeentch moved another piece.

Tzeentch had wanted this particular soul for what might have been 10 million years, or maybe 5 minutes. Who could tell in the Warp? The problem was, it was pledged to the accursed corpse-god on Terra. So Tzeentch had sought him out and challenged him.

The mortal moved.

Tzeentch moved.

Also Tzeentch, as Master of Fates, knew that he would win. He had to. He had been planning for this game for centuries before the mortal in question was ever born. He had watched, planned, schemed, and acted to ensure that the mortal would learn a certain chess strategy, one that he just "happened" to have a perfect counter to.

Another move by the mortal.

Another move by Tzeentch.

Finally, the idea of a Chaos God focusing so much on a single soul, or making such an enormous bargain was inconceivable, a fact that had never once changed, not even for Warmaster Horus. What was Tzeentch, if not the Lord of Change? So went the reasoning (if the thought process of a Chaos God can be called such) of Tzeentch.

The mortal went on for several turns.

Tzeentch went on for several turns.

Finally, the mortal got a smug look on his face. Tzeentch's beak curled into something resembling a smile.He held his head up high. The mortal moved a piece. Tzeentch spoke, in a voice that was ever shifting and could drive men mad.

"Mortal, do you not know who I am? Let me tell you. I am Tzeentch. The Changer of Ways. The Master of Fate. The Lord of Change. The Controller of Destinies. I have existed before the stars, and I will exist long after they have died. No mere mortal could possibly-"

Then Tzeentch spared a glance at the board.

"What is that pawn doing there?"

Tzeentch stared, utterly dumbstruck. His eyes bulged and his beak dropped. He saw the reason for the mortal's smugness.

Tzeentch let out a cry of rage. It was a cry that echoed throughout the Warp, driving Imperial psykers insane and Chaos sorcerers more insane.

It was checkmate.

A very small part of Tzeentch was glad. After all, being unintentionally defeated was certainly a change for him. Also, no longer interfering in the affairs of the mortal galaxy was definitely a change.

However, that was just a very small part.

Tzeentch let out a cry of rage. It was a cry that echoed throughout the Warp, driving Imperial psykers insane and Chaos sorcerers more insane. It was a cry containing a subconscious command. All across the galaxy, the daemons of Tzeentch vanished from the material world, never to return. His mortal followers began retreating, heading towards the Eye of Terror. All the Gods, daemons, and mortal followers of Chaos took notice. In the Warp near Terra, the mighty soul of the God-Emperor of Mankind himself took notice. He smiled, for he knew what it meant. It was a cry that was to echo in the Warp throughout eternity, long after the stars themselves died. It was the cry of a defeated god.

There is an example of real-world tactical genius that took place during granpappy's WWII, though it was performed not by a manly cigar-chomping motherfucker but rather by a man named Jasper Maskelyne, a British stage magician who was recruited by Britain's MI9 to assist with camouflage development. One account (which has had trouble being verified admittedly, but then many files are still classified from that era) claimed that he was able to hide an entire desert convoy by deploying ultra-bright "dazzle-lights" which blinded recon planes being used by the enemy. However, many of his claims have been thoroughly scrutinized and most seem to be tall tales.

Whatever the story may be the lesson to learn from it is never ask Creed to pull a rabbit out of his hat. He will instead pull a Baneblade out of your ass.

There is also the story about how the Allies managed to dupe Germans into believing they are going to land their invasion at Pas-de-Calais, at the narrowest point of the British Channel, codenamed Operation Fortitude. They built entire fake bases, complete with wireless traffic, nonsense but believable orders, and dummy transport aircraft, and placed General Patton at the "head" of this fake 1st US Army Group. They also made use of captured German double agents, codenamed Double-Cross (XX) System, along with diplomatic channels with neutral countries, to feed Nazis more misinformation, and used Ultra decryption to confirm they have fallen for it. Indeed, Hitler himself ordered to hold up some German divisions as a reserve for this fictional Calais landing, and Rommel gave the reinforcement of the Atlantic Wall defenses in that region top priority. It was so believable that when Operation Neptune commenced and D-Day landings began, the Germans thought it was a diversion, not the main attack, and so did not commit their reserves until the Allies had already established a full front in Normandy.

So it can be said that the Allies managed to CREEEEEEED their troops into France.

Vance Motherfucking Stubbs - Who is tactically incompetent. NONSENSE!!! There is nothing said about those one hundred Baneblades being lost. That's heretical propaganda. The tanks were shipped all across the Imperium's borders. And then lost.